It started a long time ago.
I was a bored, primary school student, easily enticed, susceptible to suggestions.
I was tired of playing by myself, talking to myself and being alone in a big house after school hours.
They say an idle mind is prone to mischief.
There was a library in the house.
It had an atlas, a globe that spun, a typewriter, a fan than whirled, a seat that rotated and a vast number of books.
It called out to me.
I resisted. I wanted to climb trees and play. I didn't want to be boring, staying inside all day.
Still, it pursued me, relentlessly.
It sang me songs and haunted my dreams.
It told me I could never regret the relationship.
I was skeptical, I knew I was too young to enter a lifelong commitment.
The curvy spine, the brown skin, the musky scent was my undoing.
I could never resist its scent.
One day, I was bored enough so I fell.
It started slowly, this addiction.
I would flip through the books, inhale the scent and look at the pictures.
It wasn't enough.
The hunger grew and I knew to resist it was futile.
It became a small part of me.
I could control it, could wait days before my next fix.
The hunger grew and grew, tossing aside my protests like a baby's hand.
It got so bad that even a day without it was pure torture.
I succumbed and gave in completely.
It's true.
I am guilty of reading books more than I talk to people.
I am guilty of having withdrawal symptoms when a good story ends.
I am guilty of loving books, sometimes even more than I should.
I am guilty. I always have a book with me.
Books are my guilty pleasure and non-guilty pleasure.
Books are my companions.
Books are my friends.
I get lost in stories.
It has been a lifelong affair and yes, it will continue.
It won't end.
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